


don't go (tell me that the lights won't change)

by featherx



Category: Fame: The Musical - Margoshes/Levy/Fernandez
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, F/M, Heart Attacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schlomo is a sickly violinist, and Carmen is his nurse's daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't go (tell me that the lights won't change)

**Author's Note:**

> it's a hospital au that became ass-thousand words instead of my estimated 5k! also, schlomo's a violinist here instead of the usual pianist because i find it hard to play the piano while you're bed confined, so. also, it's probably easier to handle.
> 
> as an additional note, there are five scenes here, and it goes like spring -> summer -> autumn -> winter -> spring. and also, if it's not clear, schlomo has heart problems and a weak body. i didn't quite know how to write most of the scenes involving his sickness here, so i googled some info and hoped for the best. i hope i don't offend/trigger anyone here.

_Tell me that we'll feel the same_

_And we'll stay here, forever_

_(Clair de Lune - Flight Facilities)_

 

 

Schlomo is nine, maybe ten, when he meets her for the first time. His nurse had changed, his old one had gotten into an accident something-or-other—though he didn’t know the specifics, he did ask the doctor to tell the nurse to get better in his place.

The new nurse is nice. He’s not really all that certain about her, but she does smile at him and answer his questions and tell him that he can play some music later when he’s done with his treatment. And Schlomo is ready to accept the new normalcy, when a girl steps in his room.

“Mama, I’m _bored_ ,” she whines, scampering over to his nurse to tug at her elbow. “Do I _have_ to stay here? Can’t I go play with Mabel? It’s not that far away!”

“Just a little bit longer, sweetie,” his nurse says, adjusting some things on Schlomo’s bedside table. “And you know how it is these days, what if you get hurt because you weren’t paying attention? Why don’t you talk with Schlomo here? You can make more friends.”

“I don’t _need_ more friends, me and Mabel’re good enough,” the girl grumbles, but looks over to stare at Schlomo judgmentally. Something in her stare makes Schlomo shift uncomfortably on his bed—she looks like those wildcats on the TV, eyeing their prey and readying to pounce. “What was your name?”

“Schlomo,” he says, trying not to look so scared. Some animals could smell fear, couldn’t they? “Um, it’s nice to meet you. What’s yours?”

She puffs her chest out, placing her hands on her hips importantly. “Carmen Diaz! Remember that name, ‘cause you’ll be seeing it in shining lights soon!” She pauses. “Like that? Mabel helped me with it.”

“It sounds—” _Embarrassing,_ he kind of wants to say, because who says that in the first meeting? But he wants to be polite, and Carmen seems like a pretty okay person, if a bit scary. “Nice,” he settles. “You wanna be famous?”

“I _will_ be famous,” she corrects. “Anyway, what’s your problem? You got cancer or something?”

“Carmen!” His nurse scolds, turning to face her daughter. “Don’t say those sorts of things! That’s being rather rude.” She looks up, smiling apologetically at Schlomo. “I’m terribly sorry, she’s not…”

Schlomo shrugs. “It’s okay. No, I don’t have cancer, I’ve just got a bad heart and weak muscles. So I can’t move around all that much, and I can’t walk ‘less I wanna fall over. They say it’s not that bad. I’ll get better, right?” He looks up at the nurse, smiling. It’s true, after all—the doctors always look disappointed when they read his papers and conduct his treatments, but they say he’ll get better soon enough.

The nurse hesitates, but nods. “Of course you will. Carmen, do you want to wait outside?”

“No.” She stares at Schlomo for a bit longer, before saying, “Doesn’t it get lonely in here? You’re not ever allowed to go outside?”

“My old nurse used to take me out on walks on the wheelchair around the hospital. And sometimes the old people give me candies.”

“But you don’t have any _friends?_ ” She looks aghast at the very thought, like being _friendless_ is taboo.

Schlomo bites his lip. “I don’t know… I mean, if I’m bored, there’s always TV, and I practice my playing sometimes…”

Carmen perks up at this. “Playing?”

“Yeah, violin.”

“Oh, oh! Play for me!” She claps excitedly, her elbow almost hitting her mother’s arm. “I can sing and dance and act and all that, but I can’t play anything all that well, ‘cept some piano. And sometimes me and Mabel act out movies an’ stuff, but I’ve never _heard_ anyone play violin!”

His nurse looks down at her disapprovingly. “Sweetie, he’s probably tired. Don’t go around pestering other people just like that.”

“I’m not _pestering_ , I’m just asking! I like it when your friends ask me to sing for them!”

“Okay,” Schlomo says agreeably, just so her rather shrill voice will pipe down. He’s never met anyone whose voice could go that high. Maybe that helped her with her singing. “Mrs. Diaz, can I have my violin? I wanna play.”

The nurse looks unsure about it, but she fetches him his violin anyway. It’s a little old, and sometimes the sounds don’t really come out right, but Schlomo loves it anyway. It’s a gift from his mother before she passed away, or at least that’s what his father told him. He contemplates between two of his favorite songs, before deciding on _Paper Cranes_.

Carmen watches his face the whole time—if she was trying to be subtle, she wasn’t very good at it. When he finishes, she reaches out to run a finger down the lower bout of the instrument until her small hand comes to a rest on Schlomo’s knuckles. “Did you make that yourself?”

His nurse is checking something on her clipboard, now, though Schlomo thinks she’s just letting Carmen have more time to talk with him. When she asks, Mrs. Diaz looks up from her papers curiously. Schlomo nods. “Some time ago, I met an old man who my nurse said had… Alzheimer’s, something like that. He told me if you make a thousand paper cranes, your wish comes true.” A pause. “He makes some everyday. I wouldn’t know what he’ll wish for when he’s done, though.”

“It’s a nice song,” Carmen says. She looks like she’s thinking of what to say for a moment, but when she looks like she’s about to say something, the door creaks open.

“Mrs. Diaz?”

The nurse jumps. “Oh, yes?”

The man Schlomo recognizes as the clerk in the lobby pokes his head in, looking disheveled. “You were still here? Your husband’s looking for you, he’s waiting in the lobby. Been yelling at me for a good thirty minutes now.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Diaz mumbles worriedly, sparing the clerk a thank-you as he heads out the room, clearly worse for wear. Carmen, on the other hand, scowls and pulls away from the hospital bed—it’s kind of a shame, Schlomo thinks. Her hand is softer and warmer than the doctors’ pokes and prods. “Carmen, come on, now. We’ve to be heading home—”

“I don’t _wanna_ go home,” Carmen mutters, glaring her mother right in the eye. “You and Dad are going to fight again and then Dad’s going to hit you and—”

“Carmen,” Mrs. Diaz says softly, “we need to go.”

Carmen snarls and something glints in her eyes—Schlomo’s not sure if it’s anger, or sadness, or just the sparkle of unshed tears, but it disappears before he can get a good look at it. She turns to face him, frowning now, and nothing like the girl who had asked for him to play a song for her. “’M gonna go now,” she murmurs. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, S… Slowmo?”

“Schlomo,” he corrects gently, not really caring. It’s happened enough times. “But it’s close enough. Bye-bye.”

* * *

“I’ve got it down now, I really have,” Carmen says confidently, even when she’d stumbled over her lines the past four or so times. “Really. Okay, listen to this: _My bounty is as boundless as the sea; my love as deep, the more I give to thee_ …”

“ _The more I have, for both are infinite,_ ” Schlomo finishes when Carmen trails off, looking lost. He grins at the irritable look she shoots him, glancing down at the tattered book in her hands as if the idea of him knowing her lines better than she does is ridiculous. “What? _Romeo and Juliet_ is a classic. And I’ve nothing better to do in here than read books. You can’t expect me to not know that.”

Carmen sighs and rests her chin on the edge of her palm. “You know, these aren’t even the lines I’m supposed to be studying. But the one we’re doing now, the _Seussical_ or whatever—it’s so _boring_. I mean, my character’s _great_ , of course, because _I’m_ great—”

“How humble,” Schlomo says mildly, skimming over a score and pretending not to listen.

“—Quiet. Anyway, the other cast members all _suck!_ My classmate never remembers his lines, the girl playing the Young Kangaroo is always three seconds later than Mabel, the senior thinks he’s so cool just because he gets to play the Cat— _gah!_ And of course, our teacher doesn’t care at all.” She sighs and blows a strand of hair away from her face. “Next year, we’ll get to do _Matilda_ if I fight hard enough. And I’ve been practicing against some stupid kid lately.”

Schlomo gives her a curious look, diverting his attention away from the musical score for a moment. “You’re going to try and beat up your teacher?”

“What, no one’s ever done it before?” She snickers, before leaning forward until the tip of her nose is against the sheet of paper Schlomo’s holding. “Anyway, what’s with this thing? You’ve been staring at it all day.”

“Oh.” He wonders whether he should tell her—twelve-year-old Carmen is a lot politer than ten-year-old Carmen, but she still has a habit of spreading around recordings of his songs for money. Granted, she does give him seventy-five percent of the earnings, and Schlomo doesn’t really mind that much, but it’d still be nice to ask him beforehand. “Well. I’ve been working on a new song…”

Carmen nods, then raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t say anything after that. “Okay, and?”

“… I don’t know,” Schlomo mumbles, looking over the score again. “It just sounds… incomplete. I was thinking it’d sound better on the piano, but I’ve never really tried. Oh well. Who was your character again?”

“Play it for me,” Carmen says instead.

He winces. He’d known she’d ask that, which is why he really doesn’t want to continue the conversation—the song sounds plain _strange_ , like there’s something missing, but he just can’t quite put a finger on what’s wrong. And he doesn’t want to let Carmen hear anything less than perfect; it’s probably her competitiveness wearing off on him. “I don’t…”

“Play it for me, _please?_ ” Carmen tries again, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. Schlomo rolls his eyes right back. “Oh, don’t you dare give me that look, Metzenbaum. I’m _older_ than you.”

“Well, we know who’s dying first,” Schlomo teases, before realizing that’s probably not the best thing to say in a hospital. Carmen’s laugh comes out strained, and something flickers in her eyes, but she rests a hand on his own anyway. “I, uh… sorry.”

Carmen frowns. “Shut up. You’re getting better.”

“Yup.” He sighs and reaches for his violin case next to his bed. “So, um, it’s—I call it _Bring on Tomorrow_. It’s not that good yet, but it’ll be great someday. If I can figure out what’s wrong, I just can’t—”

“Just play,” Carmen says, opening the case for him.

When he finishes, after cringing about four times in the middle of it because of how _awful_ it sounds, Carmen nods with an official look in her eye. “So I know you’re all about instrumental songs,” she starts, and Schlomo groans.

“I _like_ instrumentals!”

“But it’d sound so much better—”

“Don’t you remember the last time we tried adding lyrics to my songs? I don’t think I slept right for weeks.” He shivers. _White Flowers_ still sends a shiver through his spine every time the song comes up in his thoughts.

Carmen huffs, looking seconds away from stomping her foot and potentially causing an earthquake; for such a small girl, her foot-stomps are serious business. “ _Just_ this once. If it turns out bad, then I’m never touching another one of your songs again, cross my heart. You said it yourself—it’s missing something! Maybe lyrics are just what you need!”

“ _White Flowers_.”

Despite herself, Carmen flinches at the mention. Schlomo bites down a smile, trying to keep his stony expression believable. “Okay. Well, uh. … Yeah, I, that one sucked. Sucks. It still haunts me. But listen, if this comes out sounding really _bad_ , then I swear to whatever there is to swear upon—”

“Swear on your role in the play,” Schlomo suggests.

Carmen closes her eyes, breathes in and out a few times, then opens them. “Okay. I swear on my role in the play that I will _never_ try to add lyrics to your songs. _Never_.”

Schlomo sighs loudly, but hands her the score. “Go wild.”

With a squeal that sounds vaguely like some small baby animal, Carmen snatches up the sheet of paper, somehow managing not to crumple the edges and looks over it with eager eyes. “Oh, this is _beautiful_ ,” she says, a Cheshire grin spreading over her features.

Schlomo raises an eyebrow. “It didn’t _sound_ like it.”

“Beautiful enough to add _lyrics_.” She grabs a pen from the bedside table, flips the paper over on the blank back side, and starts scribbling away immediately, flipping back and forth so quickly, Schlomo gets tired just looking. “Here, I got down the first couple of lines. Try it out.”

At least five hours later, Carmen sits up with a jolt, eyes wide. “I forgot I had _homework_.”

“Nice going, good luck trying to pass history without my help,” Schlomo says, handing her the pad papers they had taken from the front desk. “But wow, this is great. My faith in lyrics has been restored.” He pauses. “Nothing beats _White Flowers_ , though.”

“I get it, I get it! Ugh, and I didn’t even study my lines! Freaking Romeo and Juliet!”

* * *

“—and Cinderella went off to live on the moon with Prince Charming number I-lost-count,” Carmen says, tossing a candy wrapper towards the trash can next to the door, huffing irritably when it misses by a few inches and floats down to the tiled floor.

“You should be preparing right now, shouldn’t you?” He asks, smiling slightly and trying not to look like he’s staring at her too much. Her hair is styled the way he knows she loves to do herself, her makeup is the most careful and precise he’s ever seen it, and her white dress doesn’t have a single wrinkle on it. Long story short, she’s beautiful—or at least more beautiful than usual.

Carmen snorts. “Preparing is for nerds. Anyway, this is like my kind of preparing! Better here with you than in some cramped restroom pushing people out of the way so I can touch up on my makeup.” She pauses. “Hey, you’ll come watch, right?”

Schlomo’s hand stutters over some papers. He’d been dreading this question since he had woken up this morning—he’d managed to dodge it all the other times she had asked, but he knows he can’t escape this time by changing the subject. He exhales slowly, looking anywhere but at her expectant face. “Carmen,” he starts, and never finishes, because she speaks before he can.

“You _can’t_ , can you,” she says. Her tone is carefully blank, but her voice trembles with an undercurrent of dejection and most probably, Schlomo thinks, rage. “Can’t because—because you’re confined or whatever, just because too much _movement_ when all you ever do is sit on some chair with wheels—no, too much of _that_ can _kill you_ —”

“Carmen—”

“Mama won’t even watch me,” Carmen spits, the dark lines around her eyes suddenly much more dangerous than beautiful. “Too _busy_ to spare her only daughter two hours. And dad’s not even going to _bother_. He probably doesn’t know I even have a show today. No, he’ll be at home draining our money for alcohol and when I come back in that rotting building he’ll be ready to slap me for being late.”

Schlomo swallows, wringing his hands together and staring at a dirty spot on the floor that he can’t remember ever seeing before now. “I… I’m sorry. You know I’d go if I could. I’d do anything to watch you, I bet you’d be fantastic—”

“Anything except get out of your little bed,” Carmen hisses, sending several knives straight through Schlomo’s too-fragile heart. “People are going to wonder who the loser girl is, the one who no one goes to congratulate, the one who’s sitting by herself backstage while everyone else is getting flowers from their parents—I’m going to be by _myself_ again. Oh, but it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Mom’s busy. Dad doesn’t care. Mabel’s with her parents. And you _can’t_.”

Something like total, overwhelming pain is taking over Schlomo’s entire body. It could have been his heart stopping completely and there wouldn’t have been any difference. “I…”

“Save the excuses,” Carmen sighs, her voice losing energy but the venom still ever-present. “Maybe when you die, you’ll become omniscient and you’ll get to see what you missed.”

Before he can say something, or do much of anything else, really, Carmen crosses the short distance from the side of his bed to the exit and leaves, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps echo loudly for some time before disappearing down the stairs at the end of the hall.

Schlomo sits there, hands firmly set on his lap, but shaking uncontrollably until finally, he reaches out to push the button on the side. Within a few minutes, Mrs. Diaz comes in his room, the pleasant smile on her face dropping when she doesn’t see Carmen. “Schlomo?”

“When does Carmen’s show start?” He asks, instead of answering the obvious question swimming in the woman’s confused eyes.

She blinks. “An hour from now, maybe more. Why—?”

“Please take me there,” he says, voice soft and not at all steady like he’d wanted it to be. He squeezes his eyes shut, doing his best to will away gathering tears. “I… Please. Even if the doctor says—”

“Schlomo, dear—”

“I can’t _miss_ this,” Schlomo begs, and oh, great, his willpower isn’t enough—a tear drops down on his knuckles, stark white from gripping onto the blankets for so long. “Carmen’s going to be alone and, and it’s her first major show, I can’t just—” He breathes in, long and slow, taking the time to go through every little thing she said, then releases the breath. “Just this once,” he finishes, lower lip quivering.

When he dares to look up, Mrs. Diaz’s expression is one of—of course—concern and worry, emotions that seem to be etched in every fiber of her being. But there’s something else—sympathy, like she knows exactly what he’s going through. And maybe she does—she’s missing her daughter’s show because of unavoidable work, after all. “Well,” she says at last, after a good few seconds of silence, “I suppose it still counts as ‘work’ if I’m going to be there with you.”

* * *

“ _I wish, more than anything, more than life, more than jewels,_ ” Carmen practically snarls, nearly crushing the fake log in her grip. Next to her, Mabel winces.

“Car, you alright? You seem… awfully… not alright,” she says, resting a hand on the other girl’s wrist.

Carmen sighs, letting go of the poor prop and letting it fall to the floor with a light _thump_. “Stage jitters,” she mumbles, hoping a nondescript answer would show that she doesn’t want to talk about it. Thankfully, Mabel isn’t her best friend for nothing, as she nods; her hand doesn’t move, though. Carmen forces a smile and reaches to intertwine their fingers together, taking some comfort in Mabel’s warmth.

_But Schlomo’s hands are all smooth and refined,_ some bastardly voice in her head reminds, like a snake sneaking in between carefully crafted defenses, slipping in cracks she’d forgotten to cover up. _You know that, don’t you? Nothing replaces Mabel, but nothing replaces Schlomo either—_

A sudden clap snaps her back to attention, thankfully enough, otherwise she might have smashed her own fist into her face, and that would have been a waste of perfectly good makeup. “Alright, everybody, get into position! Twenty minutes before we begin!” Their director announces, sending the backstage full of people whirring into action.

Carmen shuts her eyes for a moment, then reopens them and runs off with the rest of the actors. Maybe if she just shoves away the conversation from just half an hour ago to the back of her head, she can pretend Schlomo is in the crowd, smiling his stupid adorable smile up at the stage.

* * *

Schlomo ends up sandwiched in between two other teenagers his age who keep fighting over him—the teachers around the area insisted Mrs. Diaz sit with the other parents at the back. At least Schlomo had gotten a seat near the front, though he could really do without having to be between two perpetually angry people.

Finally, after what is probably the seventh argument over something as ridiculous over whether or not some girl named Serena would trip over her own dress in the show, Schlomo speaks up as loud as he can, which is pathetically weak next to the duo’s outdoor voices. “Excuse me,” he manages, trying to ignore the headache pounding in his skull, “could you please… keep it down?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” the girl—Lambchops, Schlomo thinks is her name; it’s either that or Grace, but she had almost strangled the other boy when he had called her that, so it’s probably Lambchops—apologizes, a smidgen of sincerity in her voice. “Kinda forgot you were sitting there.”

_How?_ Schlomo wonders vaguely. “It’s fine. Um, if you’re going to fight, can one of us at least change seats? I’d rather you two aren’t spitting over me.”

“Nah, it’s fine, Lamb here wouldn’t want to disturb our guest,” the boy—Goody?—says flippantly, grinning impishly when Lambchops shoots him a glare that looks like it could melt steel. “So, who’re you? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“I’m, um, I’m Carmen’s friend. Carmen Diaz,” Schlomo says, looking at him curiously. It’s not obvious, but Goody’s gaze seems to follow his every movement, every little twitch of his still-shaky hands and every shift in his wheelchair. “I… I forgot to bring flowers,” he mumbles, suddenly realizing that he really is a terrible best friend.

Goody snorts. “Diaz? I didn’t know she _had_ friends—”

“Goody, shut it,” Lambchops snaps, rolling her eyes, then turning to face Schlomo with a softer look on her face. Considering her expression seems to be permanently set in a glare, it isn’t much of an improvement. Still, Schlomo had grown up with Carmen’s eyes—he’s long used to sharp gazes like hers. “What’s your name? Carmen talks about having a ‘violinist friend’ sometimes, s’that you?”

“Well, unless she has any other violinist friends, then I guess so,” Schlomo says, shrugging. “I’m Schlomo Metzenbaum, by the way. It’s pronounced _Schlo-mo_.”

“Call me Lambchops,” Lambchops—yes!—says cordially, shaking his hand with one of the most solid grips Schlomo has ever felt. He reckons her fists could shatter stone.

“Naw, call her Grace, everyone does it,” Goody whispers, snickering when Lambchops reaches over to cuff him over the head. “And I’m Goody. S’nice to meet you.”

They exchange small talk for a little while until the lights dim, in which the audience explodes into cheers. The intro is terribly boring—some teacher Schlomo doesn’t know the name of walks up stage and recites a few announcements, until finally, the curtains part, and someone Schlomo has no idea could be so tall enters. A part of the audience, mostly situated in the back, goes wild—Schlomo hears the name ‘Nick’ mixed somewhere in the eager shouts.

Nick, or who Schlomo decides is probably Nick, clears his throat and begins to speak in an absurdly clear voice. “Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom, there lay a small village at the edge of the woods…”

Another person steps on stage, striding across the floor with confidence lining her every step. Scattered cheers come from the crowd, and when the girl turns her face just slightly to the side to face the audience, Schlomo almost jumps out of his seat—it’s _Carmen_. When he looks at her closer, it’s obvious it’s her, now—she walks along the space like she’s a queen.

Goody elbows him. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” Lambchops says from his other side, rolling her eyes.

Schlomo can barely hear them, though—he doesn’t think he’s ever had this much concentration on a single thing before—or a single person, in this case. Not even while playing; when playing, he’s focusing on his audience’s expressions, focusing on if the sounds from his violin come out like how he wants them to, focusing on the atmosphere he’s established in the area. But now, he can’t tear his gaze away from Carmen, who’s gathering some props that look like kindling, though he can’t really tell, considering he’s looking more at her face than some logs.

“ _I wish, more than anything,_ ” Carmen starts, voice ringing out high and perfect, like wind chimes on a windy day, and Schlomo feels himself subconsciously lean forward in his seat, craning his neck to follow Carmen’s movements. “ _More than life, more than jewels…_ ”

“Something doesn’t look right,” Lambchops mutters, snapping Schlomo out of his Carmen-induced reverie. “Hey. She doesn’t look all good, does she?”

“W-What?”

“Yeah, take a look,” she says, even as a few more actors head up on stage and Carmen stands alone on the side, the kindling under her arm. “She looks damn depressed.”

Schlomo splutters. “Depressed?” Leaning forward even more, he squints through the bright lights to get a good look at the girl’s expression. Her hair is stylishly covering half her face, but from what he can see, her mouth is set in a very genuine scowl, rather than what he knows should be a slight frown or a wishful expression for the scene. She’s biting her bottom lip, hard enough for Schlomo to worry about her, and when she closes her eyes, he knows by the hesitant look Nick shoots her that she shouldn’t be acting this way. “Carmen,” he breathes, his entire being stone cold. _He_ had done this to her. _He’d_ ruined her acting because—

Carmen looks up. Their eyes meet, and even through a fairly far distance from the front seats and the stage, Schlomo can see expertly concealed surprise wash over her face.

“ _I wish,_ ” Nick and some other girl—probably Serena, by Goody’s amused exclamation—say, diverting Carmen’s attention.

She turns away, tossing the kindling in front of her and bending down to scrub a huge pot of some sort. “ _The king is giving a festival_ ,” she voices, gaze set carefully on the pot until Nick and Serena begin their part again. When the crowd’s attention drifts over to the two actors, Carmen stealthily looks over at Schlomo again, and he can see the little upward quirk of her lips as they exchange a look.

Schlomo does his best to tap into his latent psychic powers to say “sorry”, but whether or not Carmen receives his telepathic message, he doesn’t know, as she swivels around to face the crowd, singing, “ _I want to go to the festival,_ ” making sure to shoot him a meaningful glance.

_It’s okay_ , she seems to be saying, _and I’m sorry, too_.

It’s either he really does have psychic powers, or he’s stupidly optimistic. He gives her a smile anyway and blinks back tears. Next to him, Lambchops glances at him in slight confusion, before looking back up at the stage.

At least two hours later, when Serena is singing, “ _Sometimes people leave you, halfway through the wood,_ ” and Schlomo is, of course, hoping Carmen will come out on stage soon as well, something presses down on his chest. For a moment, he wonders if Goody is leaning against him and Lambchops is trying to push him off, but they’re both still in their seats, watching Serena with mild interest and restrained mirth.

The pressure comes back, suddenly more painful, like something is squeezing his heart to drain every last drop of blood from it. Schlomo winces, clutching his chest and leaning back against his seat, trying to control his breathing. After a second or two, it fades, but he’s already broken out into a cold sweat. A hazy memory rises from the back of his head—

_“What’s a heart attack, Ms. Hernandez?” Schlomo asks, looking up from a thick book his nurse had lent him a couple days ago. Coco looks down at him, her usual cheerful demeanor darkening._

_“Not a good thing, Schlomo. You’re certainly at risk of one, so make sure you know the symptoms.” She pauses, hand hovering an envelope on his table._

_Schlomo cranes his neck to look over at the innocuous envelope. “Is that from dad?”_

_“It’s nothing,” Coco says softly, tucking it in her pocket and making a note to toss it in the fireplace when she gets home. The poor boy doesn’t need any more discouragement from his perfectionist father. “What are you reading, now?”_

_“The book’s talking about heart attacks,” Schlomo replies, reaching up to show her the paragraph. Coco peers at the words, vaguely wondering if her eyesight is getting worse with how often she stays up reading medical reports at three am. “And there’s an example here—did he die? I think he died.”_

_Coco suppresses a sigh and asks herself why she thought a book about death would be good reading material for a seven-year-old. “I don’t think you like this very much, do you?”_

_“No, I like it.” He lowers the book, holding onto it tightly. “But what’re the symp-toms for a heart attack?”_

_“Well.” Coco takes a seat on a nearby stool, the envelope in her pocket weighing about as much as a dead body. “Shortness of breath, hurting in your chest—” she pokes just below his collarbones lightly, eliciting a giggle from the boy, “—sometimes you start sweating even if it’s cold, too. Soon as you feel these, you push this button right here and tell me, alright?”_

_“Okay, Ms. Hernandez,” Schlomo says, grinning toothily. “You’ll give me more books, won’t you?”_

_The nurse takes a look at the book’s cover;_ On Having a Heart Attack: A Medical Memoir, by William O’Rourke _, it read. She winces—now he’s going to expect something like_ Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close _and constantly ask questions about what “intriguing” means. She ruffles his hair anyway, standing up and deciding she better go check on her other patients. “No problem, kiddo.”_

On stage, Serena gives a last plaintive cry; “ _Things will be alright now, tell him what you know,_ ” before disappearing backstage—Nick and the Witch character (Doris something-or-other), start speaking and singing at the same time, making him dizzy rather than in awe. The pressure wraps around his heart again like a boa constrictor, squeezing and squeezing until it _pops_ —

“Hey, Slowmo, you alright there?” Goody asks, keeping his voice nonchalant even when there’s an undercurrent of concern in his tone. Lambchops turns to face him now, too, raising an inquiring eyebrow at Schlomo—he looks back down at his lap, shutting his eyes tight and hoping it’ll go away on its own. The show’s almost over, he can last for a little longer.

He cracks his eyes open, the pain fading slowly. “I’m fine,” he croaks out, cringing at his barely-audible voice. “Just fine.”

“Forgive me for not trusting someone when they look like they’re in _severe_ pain,” Lambchops says drily, casting a quick look around the crowd. Everyone seems more or less preoccupied watching the play and not paying much attention to the teenager on the wheelchair. “Didn’t you come here with an older lady?”

“M-Mrs. Diaz?”

“She went to the back,” Goody reports, standing up, eyes flashing. Schlomo only noticed it slightly before, but he’s clearly more observant than he looks to pay attention to strangers around him. “Hair in a bun, nurse outfit, right? I’ll go get her.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Schlomo tries, but then the pain comes back and he nearly doubles over, breaths short and quick, and for a second he imagines the oxygen around him disappearing by the second until nothing’s left—

“ _Careful the wish you make,_ ” the cast sings, but through the ringing in his ears Schlomo can pick out the voice that matters—Carmen’s, still loud and clear, each word bouncing off the walls of the arena and swirling around Schlomo in some insane maelstrom of notes and sounds. “ _Wishes are children; careful the path they take—_ ”

“Schlomo!” Mrs. Diaz cries, dropping to her knees to cup Schlomo’s face with calloused hands. He bites back a yelp of surprise, staring up at dark, worried eyes. “I knew it, I knew I shouldn’t have—thank you, both of you,” she says hurriedly, glancing at Goody and Lambchops, the former standing awkwardly next to her as she hurriedly stands up to take control of Schlomo’s wheelchair. “I need to get going—tell Carmen she was amazing—”

With one last breath, Schlomo hears the wheels on his chair rolling over the floor and Carmen’s voice singing, “ _Sometimes the spell may last, past what you can see, and turn against you…_ ”

* * *

When Lambchops finds Carmen—Goody had run off to follow Schlomo and his nurse—there’s panic and hysteria written all over her face, hair askew and makeup smudged. “Lamb!” She cries, making a beeline for the drummer. “Lamb-Lambchops, you were with Schlomo, right? What happened to him? I saw—I saw Mama wheeling him out, h-he looked like he was hurting—”

“Look, I can’t tell the difference between a heart attack and internal bleeding so shut your yap and save your energy for getting there,” Lambchops snaps, effectively shutting the actress up. She’s well aware that in any other situation, Carmen would have sassed her right back and would have reminded her not to dare talk to Carmen Diaz that way, but the poor girl looks utterly terrified for her friend. Lambchops sighs and massages her forehead for two precious seconds before jerking her thumb towards the other exit across the arena. “Less people there. Hospital’s literally two steps away from this place. Go.”

Carmen doesn’t spare her a second before zipping off, weaving in and out of the throngs of people and barely acknowledging those who congratulate her. Lambchops gets caught up in the crowd, much to her displeasure, and when she finally emerges somewhere less cramped, the other girl’s nowhere to be seen. Lambchops huffs and makes her way out the exit, rushing towards the hospital across the road—she can see a flicker of long, jet-black hair disappear inside just before the doors close.

As soon as she runs in, she nearly barrels into Carmen’s back, who’s standing stiff as a rod right in the middle of the lobby. Goody’s there, too, sitting on a couch and tapping his fingers restlessly on his knee—at the back of her mind, Lambchops realizes, after a few seconds of watching his movements, that it’s to the beat of one of their songs. “Where’s Schlomo,” Carmen asks, voice flat, eyes wide.

Goody gives her a look, the look he gives when he doesn’t know what to say or what to do because there’s _nothing_ to say or do. “ER,” he responds, voice clipped. “Nurse went in with him. Sign’s, well…” He nods over to the flashing sign above the doors to the emergency room. “You know.”

Carmen stumbles over to sit on the end of the couch, looking like every mistake she had ever made had come to the forefront of her mind, with welcoming gifts to boot. Lambchops hesitantly takes a seat next to Goody, casting a glance towards the sign. Its bright light looks like it’s almost taunting them.

“It’s my fault,” Carmen says, voice barely more than a breath. “It’s _my_ fault. I—I got angry and said so many stupid things and—and he went even if—” Her breath hitches, like her body had decided she should just stop talking right now. She closes her eyes, tears and black mascara running down her cheeks as if she’s some character in a C-list horror movie. “It’s my fault.”

“Hey, you can’t blame yourself,” Lambchops says quietly, mentally wincing at how her voice still sounded vaguely accusing. “I mean, whatever you said or did, he went here on his own choice, didn’t he?”

Carmen chews on her lower lip, wiping at the tear tracks on her face with the back of her hand carelessly. “I… Y-You don’t know what I said,” she murmurs, but doesn’t say anything more. And really, Lambchops figures she _doesn’t_ want to know what the girl had said. A person like Carmen is a gun filled with harsh words as bullets just waiting to be fired, and Schlomo hadn’t looked like the sturdy type.

It could have been ten minutes or ten hours when the nurse from before finally comes out, locks of hair falling out of her bun. When her eyes land on Carmen, she sighs and forces the most strained smile Lambchops has ever seen on a person. “He’s alright,” the nurse says.

Alright, maybe it’s strained, but it’s certainly genuine. Carmen breaks down into uncontrollable sobs, and Goody subtly inches away from her. Idiot doesn’t know how to handle girls like he can handle his trumpet, but Lambchops doesn’t say anything this time. Instead, she lets out a long breath against his shoulder and mumbles, “Well, good thing you watched the nurse back there.”

“Why wouldn’t I watch a hot mom?” Goody replies. Lambchops snorts, and smacks the back of his head.

* * *

Carmen enters the ER as a messy bundle of tears and ruined makeup. That doesn’t stop Schlomo from coughing out a laugh when he sees her, though. “Your mascara,” he says. “Aren’t you the one always lecturing me not to cry when you’ve got makeup on?”

“Shut up,” she says, just barely managing not to turn that into a sob. She collapses onto the chair next to his bed, gripping onto the hem of her dress so tight it almost hurts. “I’m so—I’m so _sorry_ , I never even—I’m sorry,” she whispers, another batch of tears threatening to fall. She blinks them back stubbornly, hoping she won’t have to walk out of this building as any more of a mess than she already is. “I didn’t think,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

Schlomo hums. “That’s alright,” he says softly. Carmen winces—it’d been better if he had shouted at her, or said, “Yeah, you are an idiot,” or maybe just shoot her a glare and demand her mother to take Carmen out of the room. Not just say _that’s alright, I totally don’t blame you for almost killing me because you were a selfish brat._ “I know what you were going through. Well, _are_ going through.” He coughs weakly. “And I don’t blame you for exploding.”

“You should,” she says, because really, he should. _She_ wouldn’t blame him.

He just smiles, like a dense, oblivious moron who’s probably come to terms with his inevitable death years ago. “Yeah. Okay, I probably should. But I won’t. Really, almost dying was not a fun experience, but I got to watch you, Car. It was worth it.”

She almost explodes again. _It was worth it?_ With what Carmen had said earlier, she isn’t worth _anything_ right now. She’d basically told him to go off and die on the off chance ghosts could watch her stupid musical. What is _she_ worth? She shouldn’t even _be_ here right now—Lambchops or Goody would have been better, and Schlomo had known them for about two hours. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Schlomo interrupts, reaching out weakly for her hand. Carmen hesitates, fingers curling back— _not good enough, not worth it, shouldn’t be doing this_ —but when he shoots her one of his “just do it, geez, Carmen” looks, she manages a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and takes his hand, twining their fingers together lazily.

“See,” Schlomo sighs, his eyes fluttering close. “It’s okay like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Carmen says again. She doesn’t think she can ever say it enough times. Schlomo just “hmm”s, and after a few minutes, his breathing turns deep and even.

His hand is still warm. The thought of it ever going cold because Carmen said some stupid words without thinking turns her into a shivering, crying wreck again. “I’m so—sorry,” she whispers, squeezing his hand, not too tight to wake him up, not too loose to make her remember that she had been seconds away from losing him.

* * *

“Here’s your watering pot, O Great One,” Goody says sardonically, handing Schlomo the mahogany watering pot. Schlomo practically grabs it and grins like a kid who’s just been told he can go to Disneyland tomorrow. Goody looks vaguely disgusted. “A violinist _and_ a gardener? Can you be any more hipster?”

“Oh, shut it,” Schlomo says halfheartedly, turning to the side to sprinkle some water over the flowers swaying slightly in the breeze blowing in through the open window. The weather’s great for the flowers—it’s nearing the end of winter, and the temperature has finally decided to stabilize into something livable. “You like trumpets, making innuendos, and making the sexual tension with you and Lamb even more tension-y than it usually is. And that’s when you’re in a good mood. Can you be any more…” He pauses. What’s a good word? “Any more straight white boy?”

“Pft! _Straight_ ,” Goody says, shaking his head, but he’s obviously hiding his expression. When Schlomo raises an eyebrow, Goody immediately says, “Look, the guy was like, _really_ kind of hot, and I was maybe twelve so don’t judge me. I’d rather make out with a cactus than him, he’s a total asshole now.”

“Is he really,” Schlomo replies, smiling stupidly when he sees one of the flower buds on his younger plants just the tiniest bit more open. Goody snorts, but it’s a fond snort rather than a you-can’t-be-serious snort. “Well, I don’t care what you are, anyway. And I notice you didn’t say anything about Lambchops.”

Goody pauses. It’s a very momentary motion, but Goody’s observant nature has been rubbing off Schlomo lately, because he catches the way the other boy’s hand stills and how his breathing stops for just the smallest, slightest second. “There’s nothing to say about her, is there?”

“Yes, there is.” Schlomo sets the watering can on the empty space on the desk, making sure it doesn’t leave a wet stain on the wood. “Come on, I’m pretty sure it’s been going on for a year or two if I have my info right. How’d it start? How d’you want it to end?”

“It started when I tried throwing these shitty fries at Nick and he ducked,” Goody says simply, looking at Schlomo—except he’s not, Schlomo notices. He’s staring at a spot just beside Schlomo’s left ear. Eye contact avoidance is a nervous tick of his, then, Schlomo notes. “I think you know what happened from there. Actually, we always kind of have food as collateral damage when we fight."

“Are you telling me you waste hundreds of pounds of food every _day?_ ”

“Fuck off, Metzenbaum,” Goody says, laughing. “And you? _You’re_ always making moony-eyes at Diaz, don’t think none of us have noticed. Actually, I’m pretty sure _all_ of us have noticed. Even Mrs. Diaz. Probably even the guy behind the counter in the lobby, and you see him once a month at most.”

“Oh.” Schlomo looks up at the ceiling and counts the number of cracks in it for about three seconds before returning his gaze to Goody, who is, somewhat to his surprise, staring at him patiently. “Well, um… you know.” He fiddles with his hands for a while, the motions familiar enough for comfort. “It just happened. After a few years, you kind of… yeah.”

“Mhm,” Goody says, sounding bored as his eyes dart down to stare curiously at Schlomo’s still-fumbling fingers. He instantly stops. Goody is observant, but more than that, he’s quick. “Alright, so either you’re playing an invisible violin or you’re making origami. Which one is it?”

“… Both,” Schlomo admits, sighing. Oh, well, they’d gone this far. “When you get used to it, making paper cranes start feeling the same as playing _Bri_ —” Wait, no, he’s not supposed to say _that_ yet, they aren’t that far in. “… As playing songs.”

“What was that title? _Brielle_? _Bring Me to Life_?” Goody asks, rolling his eyes. “And, really, paper cranes? If I’m the whitest boy on Earth, you might as well be the most hipster person I’ve ever met. And I study in a _performing arts_ school.”

His throat’s kind of closed up. It’s been a while since he’s thought about that song and what he’s going to do with it in the future, but not that long ago that he doesn’t remember it. The score is still engraved in his mind’s eye. With a sigh, Schlomo mumbles out a, “See for yourself,” and opens his drawer, snatching the sheet of paper underneath his journal and handing it over to Goody, stubbornly looking away to the side.

Goody doesn’t hesitate before skimming over it quickly. “So, paper cranes? That means a wish after a thousand, right? Bet you’re gonna make something like—” He suddenly stops. Then, “This is for Diaz, isn’t it?”

“She made the lyrics,” Schlomo murmurs, tearing out some scrap paper from his journal and starting the all too familiar steps. _Fold the top corner of the paper down to the bottom corner…_ “And I’m—improving the score. Well, trying to. I’m going to play it for her someday.” He smiles a bit—and he can’t quite control it when he says, “It’s going to be great.”

“’Course it’ll be,” Goody says, voice low. “You, to her—basically relationship goals.”

* * *

Schlomo is sorting through the books he’s read and trying not to read them again when Carmen bursts through the door in a flurry of activity. She has a book in one hand, a tube of Super Glue in the other, and Schlomo doesn’t think she washed her face when she woke up. “Schlomo!”

_Okay, well, at least her voice is normal,_ Schlomo thinks. He closes the book on his lap and places it on the table, giving her a very confused stare. “Yes?” He asks, after giving her a few seconds to catch her breath. “Did you run on the way here, Car? Seriously—”

“Schlomo, I need _moral support_ , _right now_ ,” she squeaks, voice improbably high—or, well, higher than usual, at any rate. She sighs and flops down to sit on the chair next to his bed, looking worse for wear. Even her normally perfect hair has strands flying this way and that, though it still looks better than his. “That Hilary bitch caught a cold at the last second and can’t attend, so now I have to play _two_ roles because apparently the _main character_ can _obviously_ handle two roles—good _Lord_ , I’m going to _die out there_.”

Schlomo snatches a bar of chocolate off the table and tosses it her way. Carmen catches it without even looking, tears the wrapping right off, and takes a giant bite, sighing in contentment. “Relax, you’re Carmen Diaz,” Schlomo says, patting her knee as reassuringly as he can. “If anyone can do it, you can. I mean, you told me you memorized everyone’s lines because they screwed up enough times for you to recite the whole script in your sleep, right?”

Carmen pouts. “Doesn’t mean I want the extra workload.”

“But you _can_ do it, can’t you?”

“ _Duh_ , what do you take me for—” She pauses. “Oh. Well, that’s reassuring. Ugh, but that doesn’t lessen this headache.” Carmen finishes off the last of the chocolate, folding up the wrapper until it’s a tiny square, and flicks it towards the trash bin. It lands perfectly, though that’s probably to be expected by this point. “And I hate Hilary, so by default I also kind of hate her character. Good thing is that we’re never in the same scene together, and if a side-character isn’t present for a couple seconds, no one’s gonna mind.”

Schlomo yawns slightly and crosses his arms. “So, your mom’s watching you this time.”

Carmen brightens immediately. “That’s only _appropriate_ , I’m not _Matilda_ for nothing. And y—” She coughs, too quick and too abrupt that it couldn’t have been real. “And I’ll get Goody to record it. So you can watch it and see what you missed out on.” She sticks her tongue out teasingly, but Schlomo can see how she avoids eye contact.

“Carmen—”

“Don’t come,” she says, voice low, almost inaudible. “Not after… Not after last time. I won’t allow you. If you come, swear on my roles in the play, I’ll jump right off stage and kick your ass.”

Schlomo smiles weakly, taking her hand. “It’s your last year, Car. I’m gonna miss out on your last show because I’ve got a treatment today?”

“ _Yes_ , you’ll stay put right here and take that treatment like a good patient,” she snaps, but she’s holding on to his hand so tightly it almost hurts. “Please,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I’m gonna be honest. I’d probably cry if you would come. But your safety is more important than my happiness. And if things go alright, you’ll be able to watch it on Goody’s phone or something anyway. No real loss.”

Schlomo stops for a moment, and looks up at her expression. Her eyes are closed, like if she opens them she’ll lose control and break down in front of him. She lets out a shaky sigh, biting down on her lower lip, before opening dark eyes. “Promise you won’t come,” she says.

He hesitates, before nodding and feeling guilt stab him right in the chest because he’s already formulating a plan he knows no one’s going to approve of. “Sure. Promise.”

Carmen heaves another long sigh, then stands up, forcing a smile on her clear face. “Good. Now I gotta go, or else our director’s going to break my body in two. See ya, Schlomo!” She flounces out the room without waiting for a reply, and Schlomo catches the tail end of a ‘fucking _hell_ ’ before the door closes.

As soon as her footsteps fade away into the distance, Schlomo grabs his phone and taps on Goody’s name. “Hello?”

“Schlomo, what the hell?” Goody yelps, his voice barely audible over the loud noises in the background. Something crashes, and the sound of glass breaking rings out over the speakers. Goody spits out a few creative curses, and he draws away from the phone, but Schlomo can still hear him yell, “Watch where you’re putting that shit, you fucking idiot!”

“G-Goody? Where are you?”

“Backstage,” he grunts. “People are getting colds left and right, so I thought I’d fill in with the production crew since I help out once in a while anyway. What d’you want?”

“Hospital, now. Bring Lamb if you have to—I’m gonna watch Carmen’s show whether or not I die in the process.”

* * *

In the end, it’s not Goody who comes in, or Lambchops, or even Carmen. It’s Mrs. Diaz, and she does not look happy. “Schlomo,” she starts, and Schlomo can already _feel_ the Mom Look. The nurse doesn’t have to be his mother to use the Mom Look on him, after all. “Why is Lambchops coming here and muttering angrily to herself?”

Schlomo shrugs as convincingly as he can. By that he means he shrugs like he’s a robot who’s just learning human movements. “How should I know? I didn’t tell her to come or…” He sighs at the look on Mrs. Diaz’s face that just about _screams_ “I don’t believe you”. “Okay. I, uh, might’ve called her. Why?”

Mrs. Diaz takes a seat on an empty chair, running a hand through her graying hair. “Look—Schlomo, I know you want to watch Carmen. I know that feeling. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to completely overlook the fact that you have a treatment today, and that the last time you went—” Her voice breaks, and her hands curl into fists. “The last time you went, you almost _died_. I still blame myself for letting you go. I won’t make the same mistake again this time.”

“But—I— _Mrs. Diaz_ —”

“ _No_.” The nurse shakes her head, finality in her voice. “Please, just—just understand. Carmen’s been hurt her whole life—by her father, by herself, by other kids in school—but if you get hurt because of her, that will just—just _break_ her completely. She’ll _shatter_. You’re her constant, Schlomo. If you leave—” Mrs. Diaz hiccups, swiping furiously at her eyes with the back of her hand. “If you leave, I don’t know what will happen to her.”

Schlomo feels guilt swell up like a balloon in his stomach, but he forces it down. _Keep it cool. Keep it cool._ “I… I just…” _And yet,_ a tiny, nasty voice in his mind says, _you’re going to go anyway, aren’t you? See her one last time before you wink out? You know you’re not going to last long. Why not go out watching who you love?_ “I just want to see her,” he mutters, gripping onto the blankets with what little strength he has.

Mrs. Diaz face softens, and she lays a hand comfortingly on his whitening knuckles. “I know you do, dear. But Goody recorded it the last time she had a show, didn’t she? I’m sure he’ll do it again this time, you two are good friends. Poor quality aside, I’m sure you won’t be missing anything. Alright?” She stands up, a strained smile plastered on her face. “Your treatment’s in another half hour—just wait a bit, hm?” Without another word, she exits his room—and, infuriatingly enough, locks the door.

Two minutes pass. Five minutes. Seven. Twelve. After fifteen, his phone vibrates on the desk—it’s Lambchops. Schlomo picks it up, feeling heavy. “Lamb?”

“Schlomo, how the fuck do I open your door?” She snaps. “I mean, Goody’s better at lock-picking than I am—don’t tell him I said that—but _fuck_ this lock is hard! Did this hospital invest in outer-space locks or some shit? What the fuck!”

Despite himself, Schlomo chokes out a weak laugh, at the same time his door _click_ s and suddenly swings open with the force of a charging rhino. Lambchops is there, looking exhausted and massaging her fingers like they cramped up, tossing a bent paperclip in the trash can. “You,” she says, panting. “You’re going to die, you know that?”

He manages a smile, somehow. “Yeah, I know.”

_At least if I die,_ he thinks, somewhere at the back of his mind, as Lambchops helps him onto the wheelchair, _I’ll get to watch her one last time…_

* * *

The arena is packed with people again, but there’s a lot more than Schlomo remembered from last time—he has to squeeze in between Lambchops and Goody’s seats, and the rumble of irritable murmurs follow in his wake. Lambchops shoots them a death glare, which hushes most of the other students sitting along their row. Schlomo smiles—it’s comfortingly familiar.

About ten minutes before the show starts, Goody traipses out from backstage and all but collapses on his seat next to Schlomo mumbling something that could have been either “fuck you” or “fuck this”. Both work, really. Then he turns to face Schlomo, brows furrowed. “And you. I don’t know if you have any idea of what you’re doing, but—”

“I’m going to be fine,” Schlomo says firmly, or as firmly as he can, anyway—the chatter of the audience makes it hard for him to focus, so accustomed to the hospital’s general silence. “Really. And I thought this all out and everything—right, Lamb?”

“Except for the part where you miss your fucking treatment,” Lambchops grunts, fixing him with an annoyed, yet clearly concerned look. “Are you sure you’ll be fine? You’re not gonna pull an Augustus Waters on us now, are you?”

Ignoring Goody’s disgusted remark about how so-and-so’s books are infinitely better, Schlomo laughs, ignoring the way it’s so obviously forced. “I’ll be just alright, don’t _worry_. Besides…” He trails off as his eyes land on the stage, so familiar from the last time he’d come here. “Besides, I think this is the way I would want to go out.”

Goody sputters furiously, and Lambchops almost stands up from her chair, but the lights dim and the cheer of the audience drowns out whatever either of them might have said. A teacher—a different one from last time, or at least Schlomo doesn’t recognize him—drones out a couple announcements again, until finally, the curtains draw open and a bell rings out of nowhere. For a moment, Schlomo wonders if it’s the school bell, but then a long table with the word “birthday” on it moves forward, with hands creeping along the bottom.

“Is this a horror movie?” He asks idly. “I hope Carmen doesn’t have to die in this one. _Romeo and Juliet_ was pretty gory even if they said it was censored last year, wasn’t it?”

“The way you—the way you want to _go out_ —Schlomo!” Goody snaps, but Schlomo waves him off noncommittally. “Don’t you just—I am _important_ right now, and _older_ than you, so listen to me!”

Schlomo smiles wistfully, looking up at the stage where several of the actors have come out from under the table. He recognizes Mabel among them, Carmen’s best friend, but Carmen herself isn’t there just yet. “Don’t worry. I’ll repeat that as many times as I can until you do that, you hear? Don’t worry, Goody.”

“Look, you’re a person who isn’t supposed to be here right now because the last time you were here, _you kinda almost died_.” Goody sighs and massages his temple. “Listen, soon as you feel another attack coming on, you tell us, okay? You tried _hiding_ it last time. You try to hide it now, I’ll wring your neck myself.”

“Enjoy the show,” Schlomo replies lightly, feeling himself want to curl up and die for real when he really, actually thinks about it. _Die_. Okay, well, he’d kind of come to terms with that a long time ago, probably back when he was fourteen-ish and he’d overheard a screaming match with Mr. and Mrs. Diaz. It hadn’t been pleasant.

(“Stop _staying_ here so late, sometimes I go without dinner because you’re not around!”

“Well—maybe you should _make your own_ , does it ever _occur to you_ that I might be _busy_ getting back all the money _you_ use on alcohol and gambling? This is my _job_ , I’m _meant_ to be staying late all the time—you should have known that when we got married!”)

Mostly, it had kind of been a shock for him at the time, because he was fourteen and he’d basically found out that he had been spoon-fed lies for all his life. They’d been arguing right outside his room—probably not a good idea on their part, but in their defense, it was one in the morning and Mrs. Diaz had looked terribly frazzled when he’d seen her last, that time.

(“Why even bother with taking care of the stupid kid? We’ve got one, isn’t that good enough for you?”

“Don’t you dare bring Carmen into this! She is more my child than yours—all you’ve ever done for her as a parent is provide the DNA—you weren’t even there when I gave birth!”)

The details after that had been a little fuzzy, because, after all, he was fourteen and he’d never really stayed up that late before. But he can remember flicking on the table lamp, taking out his violin, and quietly playing as many songs as he could until he drifted off to sleep.

(“I’m not _bringing her up_ —look at the kid! I’ve heard the way those doctors talk about him! He doesn’t have a chance in hell of living! Yeah, give him those treatments and give him his meds—that shit isn’t going to help! He’s going to die before he hits twenty, so what’s the point?”

“I _know that!_ That doesn’t mean I— _we_ can just give up on him! I-I _know_ we can’t save him. But I at least want him to live a good life before he has to go. And—And Carmen is such great friends with him, she doesn’t have many friends, I c-can’t just… you don’t _understand_ —”

He’d stopped listening there. He’d crept into bed, and let the sounds of his violin drown the voices out.)

When he’d woken up, Carmen was already there, dozing off on her chair—his violin was put away in its case and placed on its usual spot next to his bed neatly. When he asked, Carmen denied knowing a thing, but her acting wasn’t as refined as it is now—Schlomo remembers the way she plays with the ends of her hair when she lies.

“ _We’re told we have to do what we’re told, but surely,_ ” Carmen sings, twirling gracefully to flick on a light in the new scene, “ _sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty!_ ”

Schlomo smiles, and for one slow second, he thinks he sees her gaze drift towards him—but then she’s singing, “ _Just because you find that life’s not fair, it doesn’t mean you have to grin and bear it,_ ” and flouncing around the stage in her perfect snow-white dress.

And she looks _beautiful_.

He knows everyone sees this—her and her childish, cheery beauty—but he’s seen every part of her, the part that strokes the back of his hand, the part that cries over him because he’d gone to see her, the part that listens to him play his violin with wide, curious eyes. And he still remembers, up to this day, the face of one of the first kids he’d seen his age, bright eyes and shrill voice, who’d reminded him of a wildcat and asked him to play.

“ _And if it’s not right,_ ” Carmen croons, picking up several bottles from the vanity, “ _you have to put it right._ ”

It hits him, then.

The first thing he thinks of is, _not even halfway through the play and I have to leave her already._ It’s soft and slow, at first, a steady thrumming in his chest, until it feels like it _explodes_ , like it’s ripping a hole through flesh and bone to burn into his very core. He almost doubles over, grasping wildly at his chest, feeling his breath quicken and thin, like the oxygen is being sucked away by the black void in his heart—

“Schlomo?” Lambchops says, but he can barely hear her voice over the sound of himself screaming _no no no I have to watch her I have to watch her_ over and over again in his head, because he has to, he can’t miss this, it’s her _last year_ —

“Hospital, now,” Goody says, voice growing faint. Then he’s moving—someone’s pushing his chair—he grits his teeth, focuses as hard as he can even with the unbearable _pain_ —and he can hear her, just so—

“ _A storm can begin with the flap of a wing—_ ” Is it just him, or does even Carmen sound panicked? “ _—the tiniest mite packs the mightiest sting—_ ”

Doors slam open, followed by several surprised exclamations from who-knows-where—he _can’t_ , he can’t leave now, he has to see her because he’s only got three years left and he can’t _waste time like this_ —

“ _Every day starts with the tick of a clock, all escapes start with the click of a lock,_ ” she’s voicing, but it’s getting further and further—“ _If you’re stuck in your story and you want to get out_ —”

“Schlomo?” Goody squawks, still wheeling him with incredible speed towards the hospital—or what Schlomo assumes is the hospital, his vision is going blurry and the pain is getting worse by the second that it’s too hard to focus on his surroundings—“Schlomo, do _not_ die on me—you’re so not going now— _do not walk to the white light_ —”

“Goody,” he manages to gasp out, reaching blindly forward and grabbing on to the first thing he feels—it’s Goody’s wrist, he can feel the other boy’s pulse beating much faster (faster than his own will be in a few minutes— _no, don’t think that_ ) than should be normal. “The… flowers, don’t… don’t forget…”

“Flowers? The ones on your table?” He sounds pretty constipated. Vaguely, Schlomo wonders if he needs to go to the hospital too.

“No, the—” _Oh God_ , it hurts so bad—but this is _important_ , and Lambchops might forget and he needs needs _needs_ this if nothing else—needs it more than his life—“The flowers and the note and _please_ —”

Everything is going murky; the edges of his vision are fading, like stars against the brightening sky…

“No,” Goody says, sounding aghast, and they start moving even _faster_ , like he’s on an out of control train. “No, no, _no_ , Schlomo—Schlomo? Keep talking, what about flowers and a note and—and what? Schlomo!”

He’s not sure if everything that’s happening at the moment is real, because he thinks he can still hear Carmen saying his name like it’s a song she’s been practicing for years. And, at the back of whatever of his mind is left, maybe that’s what they both are. Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it? So why aren’t they perfect yet?

Maybe they’d thought it’d been good enough. Guess not. Otherwise, there’s no reason he’d be… feeling so _tired_ , so—peaceful…

* * *

“Mama! Mama—Schlomo—” Carmen gasps, nearly collapsing in her mother’s arms. “I—saw him—what happened—”

“ _Schlomo?_ What?” Mama yelps, like she’d just been told a bomb was planted in the school. “That’s impossible, I just—he couldn’t have—”

“Well, it’s not impossible if I just saw him right now, is it!” Carmen all but shrieks, already making a mad dash towards the nearest doors, pushing and shoving her way through the crowd like nobody’s business. She’s been doing this a lot, lately, rather than being able to revel in the compliments people throw her way. She’d just played the main character, but she’s got _much_ bigger problems to worry about right now—

God _damn_ , she’d told him this time, she’d _told him_ , she hadn’t blown up or gotten angry or exploded or made him cry—so _why_ —

She flings the doors open and nearly hits a middle-aged man standing near it on the head; really she’d either feel somewhat guilty in a good mood or proud of herself any other time, but her heart only leaps in her throat when she hears him grumble, “How many teenagers are going to slam the doors like that today?” She’s the only other student outside—that means—God, she hadn’t imagined it—

Carmen dashes down the street, just barely jumping out of the way of a speeding car, and throws herself into the hospital. Everything has the tingly sense of déjà-vu, and normally people would associate that feeling with a positive kind of nostalgia, but here, Carmen just feels an overwhelming feeling of _no_. She had no idea that was an emotion, but she’s experiencing it right now and it’s certainly legitimate.

The ER sign is lit up. Goody is, instead of sitting down, standing stock-still in front of the doors, hands pressed against them like if he pushes hard enough, they’ll open and he’s not going to see a corpse. Lambchops is next to him, if a little further back, her fists clenched so hard her nails are driving into her skin.

“Is he—” She can feel herself choking, like her guilt had manifested into a snake and is squeezing, squeezing until she’ll keel over and _die_ , like she _deserves_ —“What happened—?”

“The fucking _idiot_ ,” Lambchops growls through gritted teeth, hard enough to grind them to fine dust. “He—He knew this would happen—and he _still_ —” She lets out an infuriated sound and if Carmen’s vision isn’t as bad as how she’s feeling now, then there is _blood_ trickling down Lambchops’ palms.

“This can’t happen,” Carmen breathes, her legs growing weak. She barely manages to take a seat on one of the couches (is it the same one as last time?), her hands shaking too hard that she can’t even use them for support. If she’s crying, she doesn’t notice it—her whole body’s gone numb with _this can’t happen this can’t happen this can’t happen_. Because it _shouldn’t_ have happened—she’d _told him to stay put_ , so why had—why had—

The entrance doors open, and Carmen cranes her neck to look up at the newcomer with a stupid amount of effort—it’s Mama, panting tiredly as she leans on the wall. Her eyes dart up to look at the ER sign, still flashing red. “Oh, Lord,” Mama says, her hand going over her mouth. “No, t-this…”

(Had this been her fault again? Had she said something that showed how _badly_ she wanted him to watch? Why? Why hadn’t she been more careful? Why couldn’t she have just swallowed her pain and marched on to school instead of passing by the hospital _again?_ Why couldn’t she have done that last time?

Why did it have to be her fault again? Why did he have to be in that uncaring room, where corpses are birthed and lives are flicked away like nothing? Why him?)

She buries her face in her hands—her fingers feel damp, maybe she _is_ crying—but she catches the flicker of color in the corner of her eye, and she’s up on her feet before the doors to the ER are even fully open. A couple of doctors step out—Carmen recognizes one, Oliver helps her mama out sometimes—and she refuses to acknowledge their expressions. Doctors always look like that, she thinks furiously, they’re always frowning and sulking and—and—

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says, at the same time Carmen yells, “ _No!_ ”

( _No_ , because _this can’t happen_ , the doctors had always said he’d get better, always smiled and nodded when Schlomo had asked if he’d be alright enough to walk around soon—they couldn’t have _lied_ and given them false hope— _Schlomo was supposed to get better_ —)

“We were too late,” another says, but Carmen has already blocked his voice out. There’s no use to bothering to listen, is there? They had _lied_. They had _lied_ , lied that Schlomo was totally fine, lied that they shouldn’t worry because of course Mr. Metzenbaum is going to be fine in a few more years, _lied_ because they were _naïve_ enough to _believe_ them—

(“We couldn’t save him—”

“You could have _tried!_ ”

“We think he must have died on the way here—can’t be sure—”

“He’s got to be okay—”

“You said he was going to get better!”)

God, it’s all pointless if he can’t even see her now. Compliments and praise and _you were pretty good_ s—she’s only all too aware they don’t matter if Schlomo’s not there to agree with everything they say and at the end of the day ask impishly, “You sure your acting’s still better than my playing?” And she’s being _stupid_ , because—

Is this her fault or not? She has to know, she wants to know if it is because damn it, she can’t blame herself properly if she doesn’t know—something tells her to blame herself, something else says blame the doctors for giving them a false sense of security—blame Mama, blame Goody, blame Lambchops—blame Schlomo—

She doesn’t even notice when the doctors move back in the ER with Mama, Goody, and Lambchops in tow until Lambchops tugs on her elbow and nudges her in. The room is probably of normal temperature, but Carmen can feel ice creeping in her veins when she sees _him_ just… lying there. Not sleeping. When he sleeps, he always wakes up, always blinks blearily at her and says, “Geez, you’re early today,” or yawns in her face so she can smell his morning breath and dear God it’s horrible.

This isn’t sleeping. Sleeping means waking up. This is being—gone. Dead.

Kind of forever asleep, kind of forever awake somewhere else.

She doesn’t know why, but she can feel the vibrations in the room, if one can call them that—she can feel Lambchops hissing, a sound she’s grown used to correlating with the word _no_ , can feel Goody taking a step back and saying, “ _fuck_ ,” like it’s nobody’s business, can feel Mama whispering, “I should have helped,” the doctors murmuring and pencils scratching on information sheets, _bring him to the morgue_ —

“You’ll have to leave, please, I know it’s hard,” Oliver (or whoever, but Oliver’s the only name Carmen knows so she’s going to go out on a limb and assume it’s Oliver) says, sounding sympathetic. “It’s all part of the process, so—you can wait in the lobby if you like, take some time…”

(Empty pity and staring at the wall mindlessly isn’t going to get any of us anywhere, Carmen wants to snarl, but she keeps her mouth shut because she knows Schlomo wouldn’t have approved.)

Lambchops’ gaze flickers over to Carmen, like she’s expecting her to say something, but Carmen sucks in a breath through her teeth and takes a few steps closer to the taller girl. “I hate him,” she mumbles, reaching out just slightly to latch onto the cuff of Lambchops’ sleeve. “He went and just—just _died_ because he thought he could get through that after last time—I b-bet he thought he was invincible and he’d be magically saved again—”

(God, it’d gotten so easy, so natural to just start thinking of him in the past tense, what the hell, is she a monster? A heartless monster? Maybe it’d just be easier to throw away all these emotions in the nearest trash bin and go through the rest of this pointless life drifting aimlessly. After all, what did it matter—he’s not here to watch her in the crowd from the front seat and smile adoringly at her anymore, is he?)

“Let’s go out,” Lambchops says, voice quiet but hard as ever. Carmen kind of envies her—how can she still sound strong when one of her best friends’ fucking _corpse_ is right in front of her? God, is Carmen still crying? Her eyes are burning, but they still feel watery, so—she has to stop. “Carmen? Come on, you can—you can take a couple steps, can’t you?”

Only because Schlomo would have approved, she thinks, and makes her way out to the lobby. Goody’s sitting there by himself—the doctors and Mama are walking out to somewhere Carmen can’t bother caring about right now. He’s staring at his shoes, probably burning holes through the material, and when he looks up, his eyes looking like they’re about to burst into flames. “’S my fault,” he mutters, and every syllable in his sentence is lined with the most intense kind of self-deprecation Carmen’s ever seen. “I couldn’t—get there fast enough. I was—”

“You shut up, it’s mine,” Lambchops snaps, but it’s not the usual you’re-being-a-dumbass-now-keep-it-down-we-are-in-public snap, or even the do-you-want-my-sticks-up-your-ass snap—it’s the snap Carmen doesn’t have a name for, because she’s never heard it before until now. “ _I’m_ the one who let him go even though I knew something like this would happen—fucking hell, I’m an idiot—”

“This shouldn’t be happening,” Carmen breathes—Christ, she can’t be crying _again_ , don’t tears run out? But she _is_ crying, she must be loaded with tears if she can still be crying after a couple decades and two centuries. Or, well, that’s how long it feels—time is messed up when your best friend dies. She curls her fingers into fists, and she belatedly realizes she’s still holding on to something—Lambchops’ sleeve.

(Holding on so tight, like she’s trying to make up for letting go of him—)

“How about we compromise and say it’s the moron’s own fault,” Goody says, his voice _cracking_ , fuck, if Goodman King’s voice is cracking then the world’s really gone to shit. Then again, it’s been knee-deep in it since Carmen’s entered the ER. “He’s the one who insisted, damn it, I hate him and—he didn’t even get to—” He looks over at Carmen for a second, like he knows something she doesn’t. Normally, that’d piss her off, but her emotions are a bit too busy drowning themselves in depression and guilt that she barely cares.

Lambchops sighs, eyes shut tight, before she opens them again, looking about fifty-percent more tired when she turns to face Carmen. “Carmen. Carmen, look at me.”

“What?” She murmurs, not looking at her.

Lambchops makes a frustrated sound that vaguely resembles a very angry cat, before saying, her voice short, “Schlomo left you something. In case something like this would happen.”

Something in her brain cuts, like a wire or a cord. It was probably the last thing keeping her sane, but fuck it all, it’s not like she’d been expecting to be in a healthy state of mind after all this shit. She turns, eyes either wide or puffy or both, and says, “What?”

“Yeah, it’s, I—” Lambchops sighs, and tugs on Carmen’s hand. “You know that flower shop like, five minutes away from here? It’s there. I—do you want me to get it? You can—stay here or—”

“I’ll come,” Carmen and Goody say at the same time. The most alarming fact is that they don’t even glare at each other like they usually do, which is even more of a sign that the apocalypse is coming—at least in Carmen’s head. Does she even have a head anymore? It’s probably just an empty shell without the brain, after all. She’s gone and lost it, she has.

The flower shop is small and almost homey, but Carmen is just sneezing every which way and Lambchops has already broken out in rashes when her elbow brushes against an innocuous purple flower. Goody has to go in and get the whatever-it-is for them, because he’s the only one who won’t be essentially ringing Death’s doorbell. When he comes out, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers that’s bigger than his head. “Oh God, what the hell is this,” Goody chokes, but Carmen’s already snatched it out of his hands before he can try to balance it.

The first thing she realizes is that they’re not white. She almost laughs, almost breaks out into an honest-to-God _laugh_ , because damn it, Schlomo had hated white flowers until his fucking dying day. The leaves are patterned intricately, like someone had drawn on them themselves, and almost _sparkle_ like silver in the sun. Instead of white, the petals of the flowers are a startling deep pinkish red that Carmen _knows_ there’s a name for but can’t remember at the moment because who fucking cares, my God, Schlomo had bought her flowers like he’d get her flowers after the show.

She’s crying again. Her face really kind of hurts. She doesn’t care.

“You wanna go back in?” Lambchops asks quietly, and Carmen just manages a jerky nod before the two of them are herding her back in the hospital. When they get there, she collapses on the empty couch they’ve pretty much deemed as theirs, still staring blankly at the flowers. Silver leaves. Schlomo likes silver, she remembers—he’d wanted to paint his violin silver when he was ten, once.

She shifts her grip, and her hand brushes against something decidedly un-flowery. It’s more papery. Carmen tugs the note off some string and almost breaks down for real, because the first things she sees are the words _Cyclamen alpinum_ and _fuck_ if she doesn’t know those flowers. They’d been the ones on his table, the ones he was stupidly overprotective of because they helped with the atmosphere when he played. Of course, of _fucking_ course.

_Apparently they can be planted in winter or spring, so I guess my own flowers are going to die soon when July hits. I hope you’ll take care of them, and these, before spring ends, though. And by the way—the color you’re thinking of is carmine._

Oh _God_ , she’s going to cry like a fucking baby if she isn’t already. He’s a lot wittier on words than he is— _was_ in real life, stammering over his responses when taken aback—that’s probably why he’s great at writing lyrics when he tries, he makes the words flow so naturally and damn it, she _hates_ tears—

The note floats down aimlessly on her lap as she wipes furiously at her face. Crying won’t help, she tells herself, mostly in vain. You’ve never cried in front of Schlo—wait, yes you did, there were a whole fuck ton of times you cried in front of him, but screw it, you’ve never cried this long and this hard before—fucking _hell_ —

When she looks back down at the paper, there are a couple of obvious tear stains on it. Carmen takes a deep breath, lets it out, and plucks the note off her lap—only to notice the short writing on the back of it. _Second drawer, under the journal,_ it reads. The writing is scribbled, like he’d been in a hurry (in a hurry to watch _you_ , an extremely unwelcome little voice in her head hisses). She can’t say it makes sense, and she’d probably pass it off as something for someone else, but it’s in his handwriting and damn if she’s not going to follow his last words to the ends of the earth.

She slips away when Lambchops and Goody are deep in a conversation—an actual conversation, where neither of them are yelling or saying death threats. Or, at the very least, saying death threats audibly. It’s another terrible, terrible sign.

* * *

For some reason, Schlomo’s door is locked. It’s not particularly hard to pick open, especially since Carmen always has a hairpin wherever she goes and she got professional lessons from Goody the last time they were locked out of their classroom.

His room is neat and tidy as it’s always been—table on the left side of the bed, flowers in their pots, trash bin empty and sheets, curiously enough, done. His violin case is beside the bed, and Carmen feels her first real (real because she actually feels it and it doesn’t come with an implication of her losing sanity) pang of pain when she sees it—it’s never going to be used again, or be used in the way that it’s always been, at any rate. She picks it up, the only times she’s ever gentle with something, and places it on the bed, dusting off the cover. “I’m sorry,” she says. She’s really not alright in the head or the heart at the moment. “I’m sorry.”

The bedside table has, of course, drawers. She checks the second one—it’s filled with stacks of music sheets and scores, and a notebook Carmen knows Schlomo uses to jot down possible song ideas and lyrics sometimes. She shifts it carefully to the side—if she messes up his things, Schlomo would be _very disappointed_ with her—and picks up the lone sheet of paper beneath it.

_Bring on Tomorrow_ , the title reads. Next to it, there’s an arrow pointing to _is this even a good title, I have a feeling it’d get laughed at in schools_.

Fucking hell, if she is crying again, she is literally going to punch herself into the nearest alternate dimension where tears don’t exist. But just in case she is crying, she puts the paper away for a moment and turns to the side, because Schlomo wouldn’t have approved of tearstains on his songs either.

When the wet feeling on her face subsides and a burning one replaces it, Carmen looks at the paper again. The notes are there, along with the lyrics she somehow remembers after years ( _we can make a difference, it’s not too late,_ fuck had they been certainly _late_ —) and her hands are trembling so hard that she has to set the paper down again because hospital floors are unsanitary and it’d really be a problem if she dirties Schlomo’s songs now.

_Bring on tomorrow, let it shine,_ the first chorus reads. And then, another arrow, this time with the comments _can’t it be “let her shine”? She shines a whole lot more than tomorrow, doesn’t she? Come on, agree with me, paper._ Damn it, Carmen doesn’t even know which “she” Schlomo’s talking about—it could be Lambchops or Mabel or, hell, Mama for all she knows, but her heart is twisting into knots like if it squeezes hard enough, it’ll pop and end its miserable existence.

When she flips the paper, there’s another scrawled message at the back, this one a whole lot longer and in pencil. She skims over it first, because her attention span is as short as her crying is long, then reads it again, then again, then again. The fifth time is when she actually absorbs what she’s reading, because it’s about as goodbye as a goodbye letter can get. When she’s done, she shakily sits down on the edge of his bed, places the letter far away from her, and breaks into sobs.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, when she manages to get a breath in. “I’m sorry.”

(She doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for, but she figures she might as well apologize anyway. Maybe _I’m sorry_ can become an _I love you_ in a different life.)

* * *

_Carmen, if you’re reading this,_ _then I guess I’m dead, which is not cool for either of us because I won’t get to watch you ever again and you’ll beat yourself up about it until you’re all old and wrinkled and in a hospital bed yourself. (Well, if you remember me for that long.)_

_But anyway, I wanted to say that I’ve been working on_ Bring on Tomorrow _for about the longest time (like, five years? What?) so I could play it for you when you graduate from high school. Actually, I think I planned to play it for you when you graduate from college, but I heard that I won’t live ‘til my twenties so I bumped it down to high school. Surprised? I heard your parents, or rather your mom and some jerkass you happen to live with when you’re not sleeping here, talking about how I’m going to die pretty soon, so yeah. But again, if you’re reading this, that probably means I’m kinda dead, so I’ll never get to play it for you._

_I didn’t have time to record myself playing it either, which is a bit of a shame because I’d still like you to hear how it’d sound like in its almost-finished state. Make sure you know this, though: if you think, even for one second, that I might have had something  of a crush on you when I was fixing those lyrics, then you are absolutely, definitely, totally, kind of shamefully right. Okay, I’ll end this now, because Lambchops is yelling at me to stop killing her poor pencil. (It’s funny because it’s not even hers, I think it’s Serena’s or something. There’s a name on it. Okay, I swear this is the end.)_

_PS: I love you._

_PPS: Take care of yourself._

_PPPS: Don’t forget to eat thrice a day._

_PPPPS: I really love you and I’m sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> the musicals are, in order: the seussical, into the woods, and matilda. (these were all done by our theater club, of course. irl carmen also played matilda, and irl nick did play the baker, but she played jack in into the woods. irl serena also played the baker's wife in itw.)
> 
> coco, hilary, and doris (the latter two being very small mentions) are all from the 1980 movie of fame, as most of you probably know. also, carmen's mother was supposed to have a first name here, but i couldn't decide between irene and veronica (irene cara and the name of the other person who played carmen in our production, respectively). so it's just mrs. diaz. oops
> 
> mabel was supposed to be in the schlomo friend circle but goody and lamb accidentally became major characters, oops x2
> 
> and finally, i imagine that the characters all deal with sadness in their own ways: schlomo gets very quiet and sheds a few tears silently when no one's around, lambchops is even quieter because if she talks she's going to yell at someone or punch a wall and break her hand, and goody is mostly blank and doesn't cry because he's conditioned himself not to show his definition of weakness. i think you can tell what carmen is like, but excuse the sudden style change in the last scene.
> 
> oh, and also, cyclamen alpinum, quoting my notes here: are available in winter and spring (but we’re focusing on the winter part), leaves can be silver, and petals can be colored carmine. also, it’s supposed to symbolize resignation and goodbye. :)


End file.
